


The Burnt God

by anonnie



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Demon!Aziraphale, First Meeting, In the Beginning, M/M, Mutual Pining, Raphael!Crowley, Romance, Straight Up Blasphemy, Worship, but only for a short time... then he’s just Crawly, slow burn but not really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-07
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2020-06-24 02:25:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19714402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anonnie/pseuds/anonnie
Summary: “Do you still worship God?”A beat passed, neither one of them spoke immediately in fear of not speaking the truth."No, I don't."“Then who do you worship?”Raphael shrugged. “Demons worship themselves. Or Satan.”“But I don’t want to worship myself, or another unknown entity I’ll never see.”Raphael turned his head with a smirk on his lips. “Who do you want to worship then?”





	The Burnt God

The Fall was hot and hard, transforming him into a ball of fire so unfamiliar that comets existed merely to justify the flaming sphere hurling downward. The sun burned away all evidence of his former self, melting his cleanliness to reveal the sin buried beneath it. 

He had attempted to fly and regain balance in the air, but the simultaneous stretching and contracting of his feathers only sent him downward faster. 

_Was this how Lucifer felt?_ his mind screamed when he closed his eyes and was alone with his thoughts. _Are his and my sins the same?_

To contrast with the inferno in the sky, the ground surface was freezing and bleak. The hit had injured him greatly, and once his eyes were opened for the first time in Hell, it was no different than keeping them closed. 

During his time in Heaven, he often thought that the light shined too bright. _How could night even exist,_ he joked with himself, _if Heaven's lighting was this outrageous?_

He answered his own question later that same day. _Night exists because God allows it. If God did not allow it, night would not exist._

Hell was the same as night. 

Aziraphale blinked repeatedly until he asked himself another question: _What if I'm blind?_

He attempted to roll onto his stomach to push himself up on his knees, but his trembling limbs did not support anything except thought. Once more, he tried to push himself up, and once more he fell. Two more unsuccessful attempts forced him to remain in his place.

It was difficult—impossible—to ignore the pain when he was on his back. In his mind, God looked down upon him and his broken figure in that moment, agreeing with the other angels that he belonged down there. 

_There is Aziraphale,_ the voice mocked him, _the first sin of Heaven since the Rebellion. The Deserter. The Incurable. The Fallen._

He reached a hand up to his forehead in an effort to ease his mind, but felt only hot streams of liquid. Blood; it ran down his head and into his eyes. Even if he wanted to, he could not look up to Heaven.

_XXX_

Aziraphale did not know when he lost consciousness, or regained it, but he was brought back with his head being cradled, and a tendril of hair sweeping against his face to remind him that he still had the capacity to physically feel. He was not numb; in fact, he felt every inch of fire and frost build in him as if molten rock now comprised his form.

Carefully, he felt himself being lifted by a pair of arms, his own hanging off the side. Though he desperately wanted to move his neck, he could not gather enough strength to even fix the odd angle it fell at.

He wished he could open his eyes to the new world, to face whatever was carrying him off into the horizon of Hell, but could not. The closest he came to sight was when he caught a peak of auburn, but Aziraphale was unsure if it was the outside force or just dried blood. Contemplation did not reach him before he drifted off again in the stranger's grip. 

_XXX_

The next feeling he remembered well, as if he were flying in the sky on his back, wings keeping him drifting in the air without much effort. The feeling of encompassing weightlessness around him.

It took him a minute to realize he was not flying, but floating, and the encompassing sensation was warm liquid.

 _It’s my blood,_ he thought. _I’m going to drown in my own blood._

But when his thoughts began panicking, Aziraphale felt the soft hands of another touch his neck and trail down to his naval, soft wet fabric joining the slight touch of knuckles and fingerprints as the stranger bathed him in a lagoon of healing.

No longer did he experience burning, but a slight chill did run up his spine at the touches the stranger gave him. He whimpered softly, straining his eyes, but only made out vague dark shapes to explain the one washing him clean of Hell's soot.

If Aziraphale strained his ears just enough and focused, he could comprehend some of the outside noises. Water drizzling down into the lagoon once the cloth was wrung out, an unfamiliar voice accompanying it. 

“...all alone. A pity I didn’t have that.”

 _Alone,_ Aziraphale's mind echoed, _all alone_.

He lost consciousness after that thought.

_XXX_

God clouded his mind in sleep. No face or voice had ever presented themselves to him when in Heaven to make a physical association, but Aziraphale knew Her aura. Even that small amount of God was enough to frighten him awake with the possible disappointment around. 

And he had disappointed Her tremendously; he did not defend that.

“I’m sorry,” he breathed out, screwing his eyelids tightly together to tune out her judgement. "I'm so sorry."

“To whom?” the unfamiliar-yet-not-quite-so voice replied.

Aziraphale froze, curling his fingers into the surface underneath him, unaware that he even had movement returned.

"To you," he breathed out the half-lie to the mysterious person. He honestly meant it; he was unaware of who was assisting him, but he felt remorse for their doing so. Aziraphale did not deserve the luxury of care after his Fall.

But then again, he had no idea who his caregiver was. Lucifer? No, from what he knew, he would have left Aziraphale rotting on the ground. 

All he wanted was his sight back. “I can’t see," he called out.

The voice did not respond immediately, and he quickly grew worried that he had offended them and they'd left. 

“That will passss," it hissed, closer this time. "I promise.”

Aziraphale felt goosebumps run down his arms at the prolonged hissing. Fear did not consume him, but it played a large part in the fact that he now laid on his back in Hell. “Who are you?”

The hissing insisted, “I want to know _your_ name firssst.”

“I’m Aziraphale.”

“Not anymore," the reply was heavy this time. The voice's owner had gotten closer to him, and Aziraphale held the breath he did not possess once he felt the warm air around his face.

“No,” he shook his head, hoping to distance himself. “I’m Aziraphale.”

“You have to change your name." A hand rested itself on his shoulder, and he flinched. "We all do once the Fall happens.”

“I don't want to change," Aziraphale pleaded as if the person was strangling him with demands. "I want to be Aziraphale.”

Disgust and disbelief shared the stranger's tone. “You choose the name that She gave you? You don’t condemn Her?”

Aziraphale became all too aware of the hand resting upon him now, and shrunk away from the touch. Although it felt comforting and warm, he knew where he was. Demons were not warm and comforting for long. 

“You can’t condemn one who has already condemned you.”

If a voice could smile, this one would have. Aziraphale could sense the approval of his response. “Those aren’t the words of a demon.”

He was about to refute the word demon in reference to himself. It stung to realize he could not.

Silence followed for some time. The hand remained on his shoulder, only now faintly moving itself up and down. Aziraphale passed a sigh between his lips at the feeling of comfort, and while he acknowledged that it could be faux, that it could be a trap, he did not resist. He embraced the little contact as an offering from Heaven.

“What color were your eyesss?” the voice asked.

Taken aback from the question, he paused. “Blue.”

“That’s good.”

“Why?”

“Sssometimes they change after the Fall. Yours are still blue, though.” 

“Oh,” he felt a weight lift off his shoulders he did not realize was there. Yes, he would not like black or red eyes.

“What color was your skin?”

“White. I was very pale.”

The hand drifted down to his forearm before stopping. He felt a pinch. “Still are.”

Silence. 

“What color was your hair?”

“Very bright blonde.” 

“Not anymore,” and his stomach dropped. “Well, sort of.”

He almost did not want to know the answer, but could not resist. “What color is it now?”

“It’s still bright blonde... on top. But your sides and front are black.”

He tried picturing himself with darker hair, but the image fogged up quickly. His subconscious still viewed such an act as vanity. 

“I think it looksss quite good, actually.”

His face went more pale. Anything looking good to a demon had to mean the opposite, no? He had to see it for himself.

“When will my sight return?” 

Though Aziraphale wondered if he even wanted it to return. What sights would he see here in Hell? Darkness except for the occasional glow of Hellfife? Auras of tortured spirits roaming the plains in search of an end to their misery? 

Heaven had been full of glorious sights.

“It took my sight a month to return.”

“A month?” Aziraphale choked out, and he scrambled immediately out of panic. He felt the stranger’s arms constrict around him, and gently hold him in place.

“Relax,” the voice said just behind his ear. 

And oddly enough, Aziraphale did.

The stranger’s warm hand drifted over his face then, fingers lingering to cover his eyelids. An extreme warmth spread through his head before the hand was removed.

The voice spoke again softly, “Open your eyes, Aziraphale.”

The first thing he saw was _his_ eyes, the stranger's. Beautiful and large and tempting. Familiar, but not in the way in which he would recognize Gabriel or Zagzagel's... He had seen their eyes hundreds of times. No, hiseyes were familiar in the way which he might recognize God’s—never seen, but always spoken of.

There was only one angel in all of Creation who had been blessed with golden irises. 

“Raphael?”

The stranger winced immediately, inching away from Aziraphale. His face contorted as he sneered, "No."

Aziraphale saw it once he spoke. The forked tongue—resembling the serpent that he was—between his lips. "Oh, dear!" he yelled, shuffling pathetically backwards, eyes which he now regretted having grew wide in fear. Ignorance was bliss, and he prayed for ignorant right now.

 _I’m going to get killed._ Aziraphale first thought as he laid there cornered.

He knew he couldn’t run. This was Raphael, second only to Lucifer for the most famous of the Fallen. The archangel who had betrayed Heaven during the very last moment of the Rebellion. Who had cast down his brothers and sisters only for the same to be done with him due to deliberate disobedience to God. Where Lucifer was the first to Fall, Raphael was the last. 

Aziraphale watched in awe at the fallen archangel. He was obviously trying to regain his composure, closing his eyes and running a frustrated hand through his hair. His chest rose and fell, a sign of heavy but forcibly steady breathing. Once Raphael opened his eyes again, however, they leveled on Aziraphale. 

Carefully, as if he were afraid to frighten him, Raphael sat down on the bed and lifted out a hand to lay on Aziraphale's left leg. Aziraphale gritted his teeth at the pressure, no matter how light. 

"I know it still hurts," Raphael spoke softly.

“Yes,” Aziraphale wanted to reply, but his voice died in his throat with a terrible scream. Raphael's hand on his leg had turned into an incredible shock of something coursing through him. Aziraphale's entire body throbbed as though he were Falling all over again, the heat shriveling him up inside out. The worst part was that he did not doubt for one moment that after he lay dead on the bed, the shrieks of his lost dignity were going to be spoken and cheered about for centuries in Hell.

He knew he was going to die.

But when death did not meet him after a few seconds, and all former and present pain vanished from his body almost immediately after Raphael lifted his hand, Aziraphale could not help but throw his head back and moan.

"Just kill me," he begged. "Please... do it quickly. I beg you not to do these rounds of torture."

His chest was rising and falling rapidly, and the beads of sweat collecting on his forehead made him overheated, almost dizzy. 

Regardless, there was a small part of him that was glad it would be all over soon.

“ _What_?” Raphael yelled in disbelief, eyes wide open. "I am not—I would never—" he cut himself off and grabbed Aziraphale's hand, yanking him out of the bed to prove himself honest. 

Aziraphale gritted his teeth again to prepare for the pain of standing on his legs, but it never came. He looked down at his feet solid on the forest ground, and felt no pain whatsoever, simply the fresh dirt and grass underneath his toes.

"Please, I’m... _Oh, oh_!" he murmured to himself, shifting his weight from heel to toe on each foot to test them. It reminded him of the first time he had walked. "You healed me."

"Yesss," Raphael bit back in a sour tone, but his manner was not indignant, merely worn-down and tired. His yellow eyes examined Aziraphale's body as the fallen angel got used to movement, eyeing his pale calves and small ankles. Not a single scratch was present on the body, and rightly so. 

He had not intended to heal him completely, just ease aches and pains. However, the moment he laid his hand on Aziraphale's leg, he had gotten carried away. _What twisted god would damn such a figure to Hell?_ he wondered. _How could a god create the perfect vision of innocence only to damn it?_

It came along with a nasty shock, but he insisted on restoring the fallen angel to perfection once again. He insisted on correcting God's mistake. 

As if on cue, Aziraphale lifted his head back up to look him in the eyes. Remorse was the only emotion present as the angel whispered. "I'm sorry for not trusting you."

"You're in Hell," he replied with a shrug of his shoulders. "Trust is a luxury."

Aziraphale nodded slowly in understanding before he looked around at the space before him.

He was indeed in a forest of some kind, as trees allowed their giant green leaves to bend in order to provide them with shade. Each tree consisted of a different fruit growing on it with apples, cherries, oranges, peaches, grapefruit, and more filling the space above them.

"This doesn't look like Hell," he observed in the overcast of the trees' leaves. 

“It’s Earth.” 

His eyes lit up. “We’re on Earth?”

Raphael shook his head, feeling responsible for raising his spirits before crushing them. "Er, no," he corrected. "It’s my version of Earth... in Hell.”

"Oh."

Aziraphale turned then, and began idly walking through the forested area. He reached his hand out to touch the apples growing before quickly pulling it back. Instead, he took a few more steps over to the lemon tree. Wrapping a hand around the yellow fruit, he pulled and broke it off the stem. 

Raphael frowned and was about to protest before the fallen angel turned around with a shining smile. "I've never seen these before," he giddily professed. 

"I've never seen that before either."

He furrowed his brows in confusion. "What?"

Raphael stalked over towards him and plucked the fruit out of his hand. Forcefully, he ripped the lemon in half and offered a piece to Aziraphale, keeping the other for himself. 

"I've never seen a demon smile."

His eyebrows raised. "Perhaps... perhaps then we should stick together. I would be a good influence on you."

 _Naive. Ignorant. Completely idiotic._ Raphael thought to himself, but outwardly had a smirk on his lips at the fallen angel's audacity. _Demons are not good. You are not good._

"The last demon to have a good influence was dumped in a good bit of Holy Water," was all Raphael said, turning on his heel and walking towards the lagoon. 

Aziraphale followed him in silence, currently uncomfortable with the new knowledge he was gifted. And while he was not directly behind him, Raphael could still sense his melancholy.

The lagoon stretched far and wide across the forest, wrapping itself around the assortment of fruit trees present and creating a distinct barrier between green and blue. The sun was also in the process of setting, with flecks of white, yellow, and blue shining in the sky to compensate for the lack of light.

Aziraphale idly walked behind Raphael, eyeing each new discovery or sight with curiosity and adoration. Hell, or at least Raphael's version of it, did not terrify him. 

The two of them stood side by side off the sea coast for a few minutes, lemons in hand. Raphael gestured to him, “Well? Take a bite of it.”

“What does it taste like?” 

He raised the lemon up to his nose for a smell which seemed to appease him because he took a bite of the lemon immediately after.

“Horrid!” Aziraphale yelled, throwing the lemon in the sand. “Absolutely horrid!”

Raphael couldn’t help but smirk at how his face contorted from the sourness. _Naive. Ignorant. Completely idiotic._

After the taste was out of his mouth somewhat, Aziraphale shot him an accusatory glare. 

“Why didn’t you tell me it was so _sour_?”

Raphael took a bite of his own lemon half. “It doesn’t bother me,” he said in a smug voice.

“But I trusted—“

“And what did I say, as your first lesson? Don’t trust anyone or anything thing down here. Words and looks are meant to deceive even the wicked, and Hell is a training ground for it.”

Aziraphale sighed heavily, but eventually agreed. “Yes, you’re right. Of course, yes.”

Raphael watcher him in extreme scrutiny, this newly Fallen who reeked of purity and divine. It did not matter that his hair grew darker after the Fall. If anything, that highlighted his already bright aspects.

This demon was going to get killed, and Raphael felt a heavy load on his shoulders suddenly. 

"I've never seen those before," he said wistfully, pulling Raphael out of his thoughts. 

Raphael followed his eye sight to find he was staring up at one of his favorite creations. 

“You’ve never seen the nighttime sky?”

“My shift on Earth was during the day, so I always went up to Heaven at night." Aziraphale's expression almost looked guilty. "I never lingered."

“Lay here, then," he gestured to the sandy beach they were standing on. "Watch the stars tonight."

Without hesitation, Aziraphale obeyed and promptly sat down on the beach, hands pushed back in the sand to support him as his ankles crossed over each other. He looked up and patted the space next to him.

"Sit with me?"

Raphael chuckled, shaking his head. “You don’t even know who I am.”

"I know who you were," Aziraphale said gently. "Raphael."

"You don't even know that much about me," he corrected the former angel. "From how you reacted when you first saw me, Heaven must have branded me a savage."

He could feel his throat constrict as he spoke of Heaven. It had not been that long ago... only half a century. Heaven was still fresh in his mind, and reminding himself of the palace often left an emptiness behind. 

Aziraphale cleared his throat. "They did... make you out to be a savage, yes. They said you were the last to turn on God. That you threatened to vanquish Her for Lucifer's retribution and fought a nasty duel with Michael. Michael, of course, beat you in combat and cast you down to Hell." His fingers scratched lines into the sand as a distraction. "They told us that you laughed and damned us all as you Fell."

An uncomfortable silence settled between them. Raphael looked broken, from what Aziraphale could see from his angle of sitting down. He did not cry, but looked to be holding tears back. 

"That is—"

"Please don't tell me if it's the truth or not," Aziraphale interjected. "Because it doesn't matter. You're in Hell. I'm..." Aziraphale had tried his best, but he couldn't hold himself together anymore. " _I'm_ in Hell. We're both here, in Hell, no matter what the truth is. It doesn't matter anymore."

He pulled his legs up to his chest as he sobbed into his knees. Aziraphale had never cried before. He had seen others do it after the Rebellion, but he never knew any of the angels so well as to mourn them this much. And it wasn't as though he was mourning himself, either. He was merely thinking of what Heaven would say about him now. After meeting Raphael, he doubted the story in Heaven was accurate, and he dreaded the feeling of having all his former brothers hold contempt for him.

Raphael, meanwhile, had found his way by Aziraphale's side, and embraced him. His knees were buried in the sand as a way to support both himself and the fallen angel's weight, his arms were wrapped strongly around him as if he were absorbing the sobs himself. A moment later, and Aziraphale had tucked head into his chest.

"I know it's not true," Aziraphale said into Raphael's chest a few minutes later after he regained composure. Sniffling, he raised his head up to level their eyes. "With all the kindness you have shown me in just the short amount of time I've been here, I know Heaven lied." He raised a hand to cup Raphael's cheek, as it was the only reassurance he could provide. "I know you."

The words resonated far deeper than Aziraphale could have possibly imagined they would, but Raphael did not respond. He simply nodded in head in understanding before planting a kiss on the temple of his forehead. It was an act of backwards acceptance.

Even though Aziraphale had felt more than enough words were said already, he just had one more question.

“Do you still worship God?”

A beat passed, with them both staring across the lagoon in search of the answer. Neither one of them spoke immediately in fear of now speaking the truth. They reflected across the water and night sky in search of their loyalties, and hoped that they held the same. 

His answer was short, but honest: "No, I don't worship Her at all."

“Then who do you worship?”

Raphael shrugged. “Demons worship themselves. Or Satan.”

“But...” Aziraphale paused, breathing out in frustration before starting again. “But I don’t want to worship myself, or another unknown entity I’ll never see.”

Raphael turned his head with a smirk on his lips. Their loyalties were the same, after all. “Who do you want to worship then?”

“You.”

His head jerked upward in surprise. “ _Me_?” 

"Yes." Aziraphale faintly laughed at his reaction, but then quickly resorted back to seriousness. “I mean it," he confessed, lips parting in a smile and eyes shining with sincerity, "I want to worship you, Raphael.”

Raphael wanted to refute, wanted to laugh and explain why he had no business being worshiped by an angel so freshly fallen that he couldn’t even be called a demon. An angel whose sins most likely resulted in nothing but a temperamental God. A good, _pure_ angel. 

But he did not. Because he was a demon now, and he would sin. He would accept this angel’s worship and groom his pride and gluttony, lust and greed. He would accept the angel’s offerings in return for his blessings. If Aziraphale wished to praise him, he would be praised. If Aziraphale wished to stone him, he would be stoned.

He would be anything for the sake of making Hell a Heaven for this fallen angel.

His back straightened in that moment, knees burying more into the sand to present a picture of reckless authority. “You do not call your god Raphael,” he said with a lifted chin. “Your god’s name is Crawly.”

“Crawly,” Aziraphale repeated as he spoke his own bible into existence. “My Lord, God Crawly.”

“Yesssss." Aziraphale sat up also in order to properly face him. He glanced down when Aziraphale's knee bumped into his own, and saw that the dark gray gown he had worn was now riding up his thigh, revealing the pale skin under the night sky. He glowed. 

Crawly reached his hand down to lay on the exposed flesh, gently massaging his inner thigh. Aziraphale's breath hitched.

Slowly, so slowly, Aziraphale reached to take his hand.

“Does my Lord God give me permission to touch him?” he asked innocently, and Crawly felt high in that moment. The look of adoration painted on his face was so sincere, that he wondered how real gods held composure in view of their disciples. 

“He does.”

Aziraphale then took Crawly's hand in his own, pale skin blending with darker, and bent his head down slightly to press his lips against Crawly's wrist, then palm.

He did not pull away immediately. Instead, his lips remained pressed against Crawly's palm as he spoke mutely. His lips opening and closing, forming unspoken words and praises against his hand.

 _He’s praying,_ Crawly realized. _He’s worshiping._

_Me_.

And thankfully it was to him, he selfishly thought as the fallen angel’s lips continued moving across his hand. Thankfully the angel did not stumble upon by Hastur, or Beelzebub. Thankfully it was him that found and healed him, that Aziraphale was pledging himself to.

Because Crawly was a good god—he was determined in this—who would not act against his own like the others. He would not allow anguish to fall upon his Aziraphale, but instead embrace all the pain which plagued him and transform that into contentment.

He would be doused in Holy Water and Hellfire before anything touched Aziraphale.

And he knew right then that Aziraphale would rather be smote down by both God and Satan before he abandoned his own Divine. 

It was a pact that they now shared; a loyalty which would not break under the pressure of either side. Aziraphale was his, not Heaven's, and certainly not Hell's. Crawly swore on himself that he would never let Hell find his own. 

Aziraphale drew his lips back, head now up and back to look at the now fully dark sky. Crawly watched as his eyes followed the stars. 

He could teach him the nebulas, the constellations, the planets, the galaxies. Perhaps he could take him there one day, if he asked. Crawly knew he planned too far in the future, but he had a feeling about his fallen angel. He knew that they were the same coin, just perhaps a different side. 

"They're beautiful," he said, dragging Crawly out of his thoughts. "Bright and colorful. You didn't mention how colorful they are."

"Some say God created angels out of stardust."

Aziraphale looked back at him, contemplating whether to respond in earnest. "You would have been a red star."

Crawly smiled, "My hair?" Aziraphale nodded. "You would have been a white one."

"We'd make orange."

Crawly closed his eyes and focused all his power on the sky. He had used so much of his strength already today, but summoned every ounce of himself to convince one of the stars—preferably one of the orange—to fall from the sky. He was not quite certain he'd done it until he heard Aziraphale.

"You brought one down?"

It quite literally shot across the sky and into Crawly's hand, all flame and gas and shimmer. The orange sphere shined so bright that Aziraphale couldn't look at it without squinting, but Crawly was staring wide-eyed. He hadn't held a star in so long that he had almost forgotten the feeling of electricity holding one possessed.

Gently, Crawly held a finger right over it, and the flame danced across onto him. He blew on it and the flame ceased, but a sparkling residue was left on the tip of his finger. 

“Lean forward.”

Aziraphale obeyed. 

Crawly pressed his finger to his lips and dragged it across, applying the faint star ash to himself. He then reached over to Aziraphale's lips and did the same, the ash creating a natural shimmer to his lips. 

“You are now marked by your god.” Crawly explained, “A mark by your god’s creation.”

His lips parted, showing his wet tongue with shining lips, and Crawly now understood Lust. “My god created the stars?”

“Yesss.“

“I am proud to serve a god who creates such beauty.”

Crawly moved his hand to cup the back of his head, but did not pull him in closer. It was a simple gesture of love, of dominance, of praise. “Your god is only disappointed that he did not make your beauty.”

Aziraphale blushed heavily. “My god may mold me in any form he wishes.”

“Indeed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is my first good omens fic ever so... apologies if you were let down. this was written purely out of my selfish desire to read it lol.
> 
> but if you i’d enjoy it, please leave a comment down below and i’ll continue! i have a little plot set up, so we’ll see if we get that far.
> 
> my tumblr is @aziritzphale if you ever wanna say heeey
> 
> love! xxxx


End file.
